On the origins of peeling letters and Chocolate
by RealForUs
Summary: He had resolved right then and there, sitting with his legs tucked up under him in the 6th year boys' dormitory – all of them prematurely Christmassy in late November – that if he pulled Sirius' name out of the hat he would give him a Christmas to remember.


**_Trigger Warning: Mentions of child abuse/torture_**

 **On the origins of peeling letters and Chocolate**

 _(Chocolate is capitalised on purpose. Have you met Remus?)_

 **'…** ** _a small, battered case held together with a large quantity of neatly knotted string. The name 'Professor R.J. Lupin' was stamped across one corner in peeling letters.'_**

They got each other. By some marvellous, unlikely coincidence they had both pulled the other's name out of Remus' battered hat – one of those pointed ones that was technically a regulation component of school uniform but which no one ever, _ever_ seemed to wear – except at the Leaving Feast, once a year. It had been James' idea to do a 'Secret Santa' but, when he had suggested it, he had probably not anticipated it taking almost half an hour for him and Remus to explain the concept of Father Christmas to the bemused Peter and Sirius.

They had almost got to grips with the basis of it all (after much, increasingly exasperated – even Remus' endless patience was wearing thin by this point – explanation to Peter, whose face kept getting screwed up in constipated puzzlement, that Santa and Father Christmas were the same person: that in Britain the general consensus was Father Christmas, but 'Secret Santa' is alliterative… Remus finally manged to convey this in a way Peter could comprehend when, in a moment of striking brilliance, tinged with annoyance, he burst out "It's like how you are both Wormtail and Peter, Wormy – different people call you different things but you are still only one person, right?!" And at last, to the relief of everyone, comprehension had dawned on the slowest of the Marauders' pudgy face) within about 15 minutes, but it was at this point that Sirius, honestly interested but distinctly confused, began challenging the logistics of Father Christmas' plausibility. James launched into an overenthusiastic explanation about time-turners and floo powder which delighted Remus – whose half-blood heritage had raised him with the unexplained muggle version of the myth –and successfully perplexed the enthralled Peter (whose mother, vague and at times dissociative, in spite of her good intentions and sincere efforts, had never been with it enough to orchestrate the Father Christmas aspect of the festive season – he was lucky to get presents at all). Sirius however, remained sceptical, pointing out loophole after loophole – picking relentlessly at the dropped stitches that eventually unwound the blanket of the whole tenuous, dubious fairy-tale:

"It's a story Padfoot!" James had eventually exploded, fed up with being cross-examined on a fictional figure he had always taken as one of the fundamental pillars of childhood, "It's a story that parents, muggle and magical, tell their children because it makes it all a bit more special – a bit more mystical."

Peter looked crestfallen. "So, after all that, he's not real?" he queried, bemused.

James groaned in vehement despair. It seemed bonkers to him, that in the space of half an hour he had had to tell a pair of 17 year-olds about Father Christmas and then shatter that very same delusion not moments later. "No, Wormy, Father Christmas is _not_ real."

Miffed, Peter lapsed into silence. Sirius, on the other hand, appeared utterly entranced by the idea of parents caring enough to not only make an effort to acknowledge Christmas, but to even perpetuate an elaborate deception in order to maintain the illusion of such a beautiful story…He didn't say anything, but Remus knew from the way his eyes seemed transfixed on the shadows of his bleak thoughts (a look he loathed recognising so easily – a brooding expression as familiar and characteristic on Sirius' face as James running a contrived-to-look casual hand through his messy hair whenever Lily glanced his way) and his heart tightened at the knowledge of the disowned Black heir being denied such simple, innate childhood pleasures and beliefs and happy memories. Remus knew it was crazy to fuss about the lack of Christmas characters in an unimaginably brutal childhood [that really seemed to have been non-existent] rife with abuse and bigotry and arbitrary cruelty, but somehow he couldn't help it. He had resolved right then and there, sitting with his legs tucked up under him in the 6th year boys' dormitory – all of them prematurely Christmassy in late November – that if he pulled Sirius' name out of the hat he would give him a Christmas to remember.

He had been delighted when he had unfolded the scrap of parchment and read a name in instantly recognisable, lazy, effortlessly graceful script. He would pitch himself off the Astronomy Tower if anyone (especially the boy in question) ever found out, but Remus Lupin had in fact proceeded to carry that grubby and increasingly dog-eared (from being repeatedly unfolded and refolded so that he might gaze upon the perfect handwriting of that perfect name) slip around with him for weeks -which turned into months, until it was practically as much a part of him as the remnants of a chocolate bar that perpetually inhabited his fathomless pockets. It wasn't until years later that Remus realised the beloved relic of a once beloved man was still lining the pockets of his robes and, in a fit of blind rage and the agony of love and misjudgement and betrayal coursing through him, hurled it onto the fire and watched as it shrivelled and crumbled to ash, burning bright just before the end and bitterly reflecting on how that remind him of their life together. He had regretted it later (later that day because really, if he destroyed all the tangible evidence from the world and Azkaban sucked the recollections from Sirius then what was to prevent the man – the traitor – himself vanishing from memory too – like a long-forgotten bit of parchment from a stupid, overcomplicated 'Secret Santa'; and later in life too, because the tremors that refuse to fully dissipate are never going to allow such lethargic, resentful, perfect aristocratic handwriting to flow again.) but been unable to take it back.

But the point was that that Christmas Remus had pulled Sirius out of the hat. He had spent hours contemplating what to get him – knowing he wanted something that would be funny and inconsequential for Sirius to open in front of the others, but also something else, something more meaningful, that he would give him in secret later on. After unsuccessfully ruminating for most of the evening he had given up in despair and resigned himself to a spontaneity that came more naturally to the recipient than the giver – he would just have to see what Hogsmeade had to offer.

As it transpired, the answer was that Hogsmeade (and, more specifically, a desperate and somewhat abashed Arthur Weasley) had rather a lot to offer.

They swapped presents – or official presents, anyway - in the dormitory on the last night before the Christmas holidays – hidden in their Marauders' Marquee of Mischief (everyone's bedsheets, everyone's pillows and a whole lot of magic) and were miffed but somewhat amused to establish just how badly the distribution of names had worked out. There they laughed until Peter started to hyperventilate because of how hard he was crying with helpless laughter at the red and gold dog collar and matching lead Remus had bought Sirius – complete with tag engraved with 'Padfoot' – which he put on instantly and refused to take off, even while in human form, until McGonagall began asking awkward questions 2 months later; and the new trunk – stamped with the words 'Professor R.J. Lupin' ("because come on - have you ever met anyone more doomed to become a teacher?") and filled with what amounted to a lifetime's supply of chocolate – a mixture of wizarding ("Honeydukes is the best Moony and I truly am not getting off your head until you admit it") and muggle (because Sirius knew his ill-concealed partiality to Cadburys'). Remus laughed with them at his present, but was laughing around a tight knot of emotion somewhere in the region of his Adam's Apple. He knew that Sirius was taking the piss out of his prefecting ways, but he had hit the nail right on the head regarding Remus' wistful aspirations (and he knew it was a pipe dream, really – his career's advice [or, rather, lack thereof] with his head of house the previous year had been right up there vying for position of 'most uncomfortable 10 minutes of Remus Lupin's life') …

Peter fell asleep first – as usual – curled up in a pile of wrapping paper like a chubby hamster, and Sirius snapped a photo with James' new camera – claiming it for use as future blackmail material, but Remus was already planning how best to attain a copy without having to admit his sappiness, wanting it for his album (and almost 2 decades later, it's the only one he can't tear up because it is not a picture of a Death Eater but a picture of a lost…dead…whatever…friend…brother that he doesn't want to forget – because Wormy and the traitor are irreconcilable and so forever exist as two separate entities in Remus' mind…). James was out like a light mere minutes later – Butterbeer may contain so little alcohol they'll cheerfully sell it to 13 year-olds but, as Remus had pointed out several times, that means nothing if you mix it with firewhiskey and drink the entire stash single-handedly .

They were both heavy sleepers, but Remus communicated his intentions to Sirius through mime and their implicit language of mutual understanding anyway. They 'borrowed' James' cloak, took the map and had luck on their side for getting out of the castle (it was only the next year that security was tightened and people bothered to check doors were locked…in 1976 Hogwarts was unequivocally safe – from external forces at least). Behind the broom shed – the only place he could think to stash the illicit gift – he showed the bike to Sirius with a nervous babbling commentary about "needing fixing up" (although he himself had already done enough to what was virtually scrap metal at the time of buying to make it at least go) and "being able to get away" and "freedom" and the like, failing to communicate what he meant without treading too heavily on hypersensitive topics. Or perhaps he didn't fail quite as much as he imagined he had because, having trailed off into a lingering, doubtful silence while Sirius stared wordlessly at the bike, he was not expecting to have his legs knocked out from under him in a fierce, uncharacteristic hug.

He should have known, really, when giving such a reckless gift, what the inevitable outcome would be. And yet somehow he was still unable to account for how he ended up clinging on to Sirius – both of them wearing their bloody pyjamas, for Merlin's sake – on the back of a motorbike speeding lethally through the Forbidden Forest, with his half-hearted protests being soundly ignored and the December wind joining with the other boy's rebelliously long hair in whipping his face.

In the clearing, Sirius had another present for him too. He shoved it shyly into his hands and hastened to explain that he had had it published anonymously and he hoped that was okay and he knew he probably shouldn't even have looked at Remus' manuscript but it was just so damn good and he made up the title himself and he knew it was lousy, sorry…and Remus didn't know whether to laugh or cry and so he just settled for grinning like an idiot and returning the hug that was so unexpected earlier – the first ever copy of 'Hairy Snout, Human Heart' still clutched in his hand.

They ate chocolate under the wintry night sky, leaning against the precariously parked motorbike and talking about nothing for hours: getting a side-car for the bike (Remus is never riding like that again! – except he does, because you can't feel someone against you when you're in their side-car),the fact that Sirius had the trunk stamped because he knew that that was what Remus secretly wanted and he believed that by the time it mattered they would have fixed the world up enough to make it possible, after all, there would be no better teacher on earth and maybe he could revolutionise how you teach dark creatures (because they both bloody hated DADA [in spite of their necessary personal prowess] – never the same teacher two years running [on one memorable occasion they got through three in as many terms] and sometimes it was just that it was boring or they didn't have a clue what this incompetent professor was talking about, but sometimes Remus had to act like he couldn't hear what they were saying about werewolves and pretend it didn't bother him - all the while with Sirius growling in his ear; and sometimes Sirius sat there chewing the inside of his mouth to avoid exploding at teachers who patronised them with information about dark curses, so sugar-coated it was tantamount to lies, that he'd had used on him at the age of 11), getting a flat together after Hogwarts (Sirius suggested it quite casually and surely he couldn't have known how Remus' pulse seemed to tighten at the thought), and Remus converted Sirius to Cadburys and himself to Honeydukes (but he converted back, a couple of years later, because Cadburys tasted even better on Sirius' mouth); and they stared at a sky where, by a twist of fate similar to the one that made them each other's Secret Santa, the dog star seemed almost to be touching the waning moon and you didn't have to be a sodding centaur to figure out that that meant…and maybe, for once – with the smell of pine needles and cold, damp forest and petrol and chocolate and a promise of snow in the air - Remus didn't hate the moon.

Too many and not enough years later though, he drags himself from The Shack – after another full-moon alone (12 years, how does it not get any easier?) – and loathes the moon and the memories with an exhausted sort of passion. Sitting on the soothingly cold, damp grass in the dark, aching and throbbing – inside and out - Remus absently eats a chocolate bar that hails from that same Christmas present when they were 17 (the trunk has been made sense of now) and fingers an old, battered red and gold collar, wondering why he hasn't told anyone to whom it belonged and unwilling to admit that he already knows the answer…unwilling to admit that some part of his aching is dues to wishing – against reason or morality – that the familiar black dog who is supposed to wear it will come bounding over that hill…


End file.
